


sugar, spice, and something nice

by ephemeralsky



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Domestic Fluff, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Post-Canon, Some Humor, gratuitous descriptions of baking steps, just a heart-warming story about a boy, who discovers the joys of something that isnt stickball
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2017-06-26
Packaged: 2018-11-19 12:30:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11313450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ephemeralsky/pseuds/ephemeralsky
Summary: Andrew appears by his side seconds later, takes one look at the charred disaster, and says, “At least you did not burn the Tower down.”Neil sighs.Happy birthday, he thinks mockingly as he chucks the brownie into the garbage bin.(or: Neil finds a new hobby and indulges his family with sweets, Andrew indulges Neil, and they both can't stop staring at each other)





	sugar, spice, and something nice

**Author's Note:**

> i don't think there are any trigger warnings for this fic, aside from allusions to mental illness. there are, however, some cussing, but if they didn't cuss then they wouldn't be foxes. 
> 
> let me know if you need me to add any TWs though.

During Thanksgiving of Neil’s sophomore year, Abby manages to rope him into helping her bake the dessert she wants to serve after dinner.

The upperclassmen and freshmen all have homes to go back to for the holidays, which leaves Andrew’s lot to toil away in Abby’s kitchen for their Thanksgiving meal. In Abby’s words, the other boys are not to be trusted with something as serious as dessert, but Neil also remembers how Andrew said that Abby’s baking skills aren’t exactly assets to tout about. He’s not sure why he’s the one specifically chosen for the task, but he understands if Abby just wants the minimal number of witnesses for any possible mishaps.    

Wymack, Nicky, and Aaron are making food preps at the dining table, peeling potatoes and chopping up onions and whatever it is they need to do to whip up the constituents of a Thanksgiving meal, while Kevin is banished to the living room after making yet another comment about replacing mashed potatoes and stuffing with bean and kale soup and orange and kale salad respectively. Andrew is with him because nobody can make him do any cooking unless they want a kitchen knife between their ribs, to which Wymack and Nicky send a significant look Neil’s way, to which Neil pointedly ignores; Neil knows that Andrew won’t be bothered to cook because there are other people to do it, and those other people aren’t restricted to Neil, which means that there isn’t any worry about the possibility of eating charred food that night.    

Which brings Neil to his next question: why enlist someone with basic culinary skills to do any elaborate cooking, much less baking?

When he voices this question, Abby pats him on the arm in a way that doesn’t remind him of his mother and tells him, “It could be fun.”

“Sure,” he says, but his eyebrows are knitted together in consternation, the weight of a peeler and a green apple odd in his hands. If anything goes wrong, he supposes, he can always go to the nearest Safeway and buy some pies.

By the time they have all the apples, cinnamon, and sugar in a pot to make the pie filling, there are also a multitude of other things stewing on the stove, and Nicky is arguing with Aaron over what seasoning to put on the turkey. The kitchen is hot and stifling like a summer day after rainfall.

“Weird,” Abby says, frowning at the recipe that she printed out, “It says here to heat the oven to 175 degrees. Isn’t that a little low?”

She passes it over to Neil, who skims the instructions over. “I’m pretty sure this is in Celsius.” He bites his lower lip, tilting his head a little, “I think that should be around 350 degrees Fahrenheit.”

They check that conversion on Google just to be sure, and Abby looks way too proud of Neil for the simple Math he did. Besides, he prefers to use Celsius than Fahrenheit, if only because his mother did.

At one point, Andrew wanders into the kitchen, scooping food up with his fingers to taste them until Wymack swats his hand away, and when he comes up to Neil, Neil offers him a spoonful of the warm pie filling. Blank-faced, he stares at Neil, then at Neil’s hand, before he leans forward and closes his mouth around the spoon. As he chews, he reaches for Neil’s face, thumb swiping over Neil’s right cheek, and when he pulls away, Neil sees the smear of white dust over the pad of his finger.

“Thanks,” Neil says, feeding Andrew another scoop of the filling.  

“Josten, stop giving him all the food before we even finish cooking.” Wymack stabs a finger in Andrew’s direction, “You. Stop being unsanitary and get back to the living room.”

Andrew does, but not before attempting to filch a bowl of cranberry sauce and earning a round of grumbling from Wymack.

Neil gets back to rolling out the dough for the pie crust, trying his best not to get any of the flour on his face again, but he soon grows frustrated when he has to redo it several times, unable to get the thickness right, and then he gets frustrated about being frustrated over _baking_.

Some interminable hours, spilled gravy, and two high-pitched squeals from Nicky later, they’re all seated at the dining table with an array of food in front of them, and while Kevin battles Wymack for the last piece of turkey, Abby brings out the pie.

Neil can’t help but wince when he sees the burnt edges of the crust, and it doesn’t help that he had also accidentally sprinkled too much sugar over the bumpy surface, but he takes comfort in knowing that Andrew, at the very least, wouldn’t mind that little snafu.

“It’s too sweet,” Kevin complains, “And the filling is runny.”

Nicky rolls his eyes. “Well _I_ like it,” he says, a grin sent Neil’s way.

“It’s so-so,” Aaron mutters, face twisted as if it’s physically painful for him to be admitting that.

Andrew doesn’t say anything, which is hardly surprising, clearing away a few slices of pie with huge dollops of whip cream, which is even less surprising.   

With a smile sneaking into the corners of his mouth, Neil watches him, always amazed by how much sweets he can consume. Andrew stabs a piece of his pie with his fork, turning to Neil and holding it out in front of him.

Blinking, Neil says, “You know I don’t care for sweets.”

“You made it and you’re not even going to taste it?”

It’s a pretty good point, so Neil eats the offered food without further argument. It’s also worth noting how Andrew’s eyebrow twitches when Neil’s lips wrap around the head of the fork. He leans back in his chair, chewing in thought. The sweetness of the filling is contradicted with the sharp sourness of the green apples, and the crust crumbles and melts on his tongue with a hint of the saltiness from the butter.

“It’s…not bad.”

From across the table, Abby smiles at him. Andrew looks at him for a while longer before continuing to finish the rest of the pie.  

*

Neil hasn’t been sleeping.

In all honesty, he prefers it this way for the simple fact that if he doesn’t sleep, he won’t be plagued by nightmares.

Andrew had stared at him when they entered the bedroom hours ago, but Neil refused to answer the unspoken question reflected in his eyes, and he had simply smiled tiredly and said _goodnight_ before climbing up to the loft. Andrew had nodded, slowly, tracking Neil’s movements with his eyes the entire time like a hawk.

Neil would have liked sharing a bed with Andrew that night, something they’ve begun to do with more frequency as of late, but he knows that it’s harder to pretend to be asleep when Andrew is right next to him. He’s starting to rethink his decision, though, when he realizes that it is more suspicious of him to refuse sleeping together.

Neil lies on his side, listening to Kevin’s snoring and tracing the gashes of raised skin on his stomach. He’s not exactly anxious; the volatile energy that purrs underneath his coiled muscles, chanting at him to _run run run_ while his heart pounds in his temples in telltale signs of a nervous breakdown, is noticeably missing. In its place is this discomfort, like he’s wearing shoes that are too big for him – it won’t kill him and it won’t necessarily be an issue, but it is distracting enough to leave him unable to walk without any awkwardness following him, his pace faltering a little with every few steps, questioning the direction he’s headed towards.

Restlessness he knows with aching familiarity, but this is different.

When he flips his phone open, he finds out that it is way past midnight. Like the years before, he takes some time to drink in the fact that he – Nathaniel Wesninski and all the boys he used to be – has grown a year older.

He had not expected he would live to see twenty or that he would outlive his demons, but now he has a whole lifetime ahead of him and significantly fewer demons to escape from.

He kicks off the ill-fitting shoes and clambers down the ladder, footsteps soundless as he goes out to the living room. He lights up a cigarette by his desk near the window, but the scent of tobacco does not offer him any sense of peace that night, so he stubs it out and goes to the bathroom to wash his face. When he gets out, Andrew is leaning against his desk, arms crossed and hair matted, staring impassively at him.

They stand like that for a while, staring at each other from across the room, with only the bathroom light behind Neil as a source of illumination. He switches it off and pads over to where Andrew is, the layout of their dorm room a muscle memory, and settles beside Andrew.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Neil says in the darkness. Twisting his fingers together, he continues, “Today is –”

“I know what today is,” Andrew interrupts, calm baritone a little hoarse from sleep.

Neil nods, even though it’s hard to see each other in the dark.

After a few minutes of silence, Andrew asks, “Do you want to run?”

In the stillness of the night, it sounds almost like gunshot, the way it has Neil’s heart stuttering and his muscles locking up.

Neil thinks that Andrew knows him too well, the thought disconcerting and assuring all at once.   

“Not really,” he answers truthfully, albeit reluctantly, “But being here is…unsettling.”

Andrew doesn’t respond, but he shifts off the desk and goes to the bedroom. The light switches on and Neil hears Kevin groan in protest. Donning a coat and his boots, Andrew comes out with Neil’s coat, keys, and wallet.

Neil understands and immediately goes to put on his own shoes while Andrew heads for the door.

Down at the parking lot, Andrew jabs a finger towards the Maserati and succinctly says, “Drive.”

Neil drives, no destination in mind, but he thinks that the point here is to simply _go_ , driving away without the actual intention of leaving and running. The underlying temptation exists though, no matter how dormant, which is why he has Andrew there beside him, to keep him anchored. There are miles and miles of road in front of him that stretches across valleys and dunes and strata of land, but when he crosses them, he wants to make sure that it would not be beckoned by fear.

His gaze flickers over to Andrew, and he is not surprised to find that Andrew is watching him.

“Keep your eyes on the road,” Andrew says blandly.

Neil reverts his gaze to the windshield, but the bubbles welling in him are hard to ignore.

“Is this where I’m supposed to tell you to stop staring at me?”

“Incorrect. This is where you are supposed to shut up.”

“You know,” Neil says, as if he didn’t hear that comment, even though he also sort of wants to call Andrew out on how he didn’t deny that he’s staring at Neil, “it’s hardly fair that you get to ogle at me all you want when you won’t let me do it in return.”

“Don’t make me stab you, Neil. And I do not _ogle_.”

“You’re going to get blood on the seats. And sure, if that’s what you’d like to believe.”

Andrew simply reaches over to flick the side of Neil’s head, and Neil laughs, the bubbles rising and bursting out of him.

He sees a sign advertising a nearby Walmart Supercenter, and he gets an idea.

When he pulls into the parking lot of the superstore, Andrew quirks an eyebrow at him.

Neil shrugs. “I need to find a few things.”

Wordlessly, Andrew follows him into the virtually empty store, the overhead lights a glaring white and muzak tinkling through the speakers. It feels a little like entering another dimension.

Neil grabs a cart and they walk through the aisles, Andrew glancing disinterestedly at some of the products and grabbing a few Snickers and Twix bars.

“Are we out of milk?” Neil asks.

“We will be after Kevin has his breakfast tomorrow,” Andrew says, eyeing the variety of juices lining one part of the frozen section.

They arrive at the dairy section and Neil hauls one gallon of whole milk into the cart.

“He only drinks 2% milk,” Andrew remarks indifferently.

“I know,” Neil says, “Maybe this way he’ll drink less and we won’t have to buy milk three times a week.”

Andrew doesn’t say anything further, but Neil sees the small twitch of muscle on his cheek that gives away his amusement.

Neil throws in some butter and brings them around to a few different aisles, adding vanilla extract, baking powder, and cocoa. Andrew picks the last one up, inspecting the label, and Neil asks, “Do we still have some left?”

Andrew places the tin back into the cart. “A little less than half.”

“I’ll just buy it, then,” Neil decides, pushing the cart towards the checkout area.

What a sight they must make, two short men wearing pajama bottoms and matching winter coats, one with harrowing scars on his face and the other dead-eyed, both with disheveled hair and eyebags so big they can carry dictionaries and half of Kevin Day’s ego. The contemptuous but oddly intrigued look the middle-aged cashier sends their way is rather telling.

Right before they step outside, Neil comes to a halt and tells Andrew to wait there with the items they paid for as he doubles back. He purchases what he needs quickly, and doesn’t say anything when Andrew eyes the plastic bag in his hand.

It is almost three in the morning by the time they make it back to the Tower, and Neil gets to work. He takes out eggs, flour, and sugar, setting them on the counter with the newly bought ingredients. After he preheats the oven and melts some butter, Andrew, perched on one of the stools and smoking a cigarette, finally asks, “Do you know what you’re doing?”

“I watched Renee bake some a few weeks ago,” he says offhandedly, dumping all the haphazardly-measured ingredients, including the hot butter, into one huge bowl, “I think it should be fine.”

He begins to think it is _not_ fine when he’s mixing the batter and the eggs become weird-looking, but because he is stubborn, he pours it all into a baking pan anyway and puts it in their small, made-for-college-kids-who-aren’t-going-to-care-about-culinary-intricacies oven.

Neil sets the timer on his phone for thirty minutes and they migrate to the beanbag chairs, Andrew eating one of the chocolate bars they bought and Neil turning the television on at a low volume. They manage to doze off for a while, but when Neil jolts awake and checks his phone, he discovers that it’s dead and that there is an unpleasant smell permeating the air. He dashes to the kitchen but it’s already too late; the brownie is burnt.

Andrew appears by his side seconds later, takes one look at the charred disaster, and says, “At least you did not burn the Tower down.”

Neil sighs. _Happy birthday_ , he thinks mockingly as he chucks the brownie into the garbage bin.

It’s a little after five in the morning and he usually goes out for a run around this hour, but instead, he plucks out the box of ready-to-bake brownie mix from the last grocery bag and holds it up for Andrew to see.

“Good thing I have an emergency plan.”  

*

“Is this going to be a regular occurrence?”

“Hmm?” Neil doesn’t look up from where he is carefully whisking milk into a saucepan of sugar and cornstarch. When it boils, he adds in some egg yolks, stirring it as he frowns at the recipe he’s propped up against the coffeemaker.

“Is what going to be a regular occurrence?” he asks when Andrew doesn’t elaborate, mixing vanilla and butter into the pan.

He can feel Andrew’s eyes on him as he pours the pudding into small dessert dishes and pulls plastic wrap tautly over each of them. After he puts them in the fridge with a satisfied little grin, he turns to Andrew, leaning against the counter.

“Well?” he prompts, his fringe falling over his eyes as he takes hairclips out of his hair.

Andrew studies him for a few beats longer, searching for answers to a question only he is privy to. Then he nods, reaching a conclusion, and leaves Neil in the kitchen to wonder what that was all about.

*

“You’re going to give us all diabetes,” Kevin grumbles, arms crossed like a petulant child.

“We’ve been through this before, Kevin,” Neil says, combining flour, baking soda, cocoa, and a pinch of salt in a bowl, “If you don’t like them, don’t eat them.”

“It’s not as simple as that!” Kevin throws his hands in the air wildly like Neil is the unreasonable one in this situation.

“Pray, how is it not?” In a different bowl made of stainless steel, Neil throws in some butter, sugar, and vanilla extract and attaches it to the mixer. He shoots Kevin a pointed look with his hand on the switch.

Kevin challenges him with a baleful glare. “Don’t you dare start that contraption when I’m talking to you.”

Neil turns it on, maintaining eye contact, and when Kevin opens his mouth to argue, he cranks it up to a high rotation setting, the whirring noise drowning out all of Kevin’s shouting. Amazing, really.

The stand mixer was bought a few days after his experiment on puddings by an apathetic Andrew.

 _You better use it_ , he had said, verging on a threat. His face said he didn’t care and his voice promised he would make sure Neil didn’t waste his money, but his hands were clenched into fists at his side, and Neil had taken one look at the mixer, then at Andrew, and _can I kiss you?_ tumbled from his lips before he could dwell further on it. 

Something warm flashed in Andrew’s eyes at that, there and gone like quicksilver, and he said _yes_. Neil cupped his face in his hands like he was made of glass and kissed him squarely on the mouth. Andrew reacted by hoisting Neil onto the counter where they proceeded to make out for the next hour, and Neil has nothing but good thoughts on the wonderful machine, his appreciation growing tenfold at its ability to mute Kevin out.

When the mixture becomes creamy, he adds in eggs, but he unfortunately has to slow it down when stirring in flour, and Kevin unfortunately has not lost his steam. Neil grits his teeth, trying to keep his temper in check.

“I don’t get why you’re even making another batch when you just made a whole pile of them.” Kevin points to the cooling rack where rows of chocolate chip cookies are sitting on. Or he might have been pointing at what’s beside it: a huge Tupperware container filled with chocolate chip cookies.

Neil aggressively shakes down white chocolate morsels into the batter and mixes it by hand with a wooden spoon, his annoyance mounting. “Those are for the others. This one is for Andrew, because he prefers chocolate cookies.”

“And that’s another thing,” Kevin says hotly, “You’re encouraging his bad eating habits in particular. We need him in his best shape, Neil, not pudgy and slow.”

Neil slams the spoon down onto the counter and whips around to look at Kevin.

“What is your _problem_? If he wants to eat candies and sugar all the time, let him. If I want to bake and happen to enjoy it, let me do it without you nagging at me.”

Kevin looks ready to counterstrike, so Neil shoves a cookie into his mouth.

“No, listen to me – I don’t say anything when you’re watching a documentary on the history of yarns. Why do you think it’s acceptable for you to stop me from doing what I like? And before you say anything about it, I’ll make it clear that doing something other than Exy for a few hours on a weekend isn’t going to hurt my ability to lob a ball at you, Kevin.”

An affronted expression twists Kevin’s face, as if what Neil is saying is blasphemous, but he’s not salty enough to spit out the piece of food.

“Stop being such a hardass, eat that fucking cookie, and get off my back.” He takes a deep breath; then, in a quieter but firm voice, he says, “There’s nothing wrong with letting yourself enjoy other things once in a while.”

They didn’t go through hell and back to lead miserable lives, after all, where they obsess over one thing to completely forget that there’s so much more things to do and see and experience.

Kevin munches on his cookie, his displeased expression chipping away until he’s left looking begrudgingly impressed and mildly chastised.

“I still think this is ridiculous,” he mutters, reaching for another. Neil doesn’t have the patience to figure out if he’s referring to Neil’s newfound hobby or to the fact that he’s enjoying something other than his protein shakes.

“Then I guess I’ll never make those pineapple tarts you seemed to thoroughly enjoy again,” Neil says breezily, just because he can.

Lips pressed together and dotted with cookie crumbs, Kevin seethes. 

“Fine,” he says, sounding like he has stones in his mouth, “Do whatever makes you happy.”

“Glad we’ve finally come to an agreement,” Neil drawls, flapping his hand dismissively towards the door. “Now go and finish that book on Celtic nations or whatever else you enjoy doing that makes you less of an Exy-obsessed dick.”

“You’re the last person I want to hear that from,” Kevin snaps, stomping off and flipping Neil the bird, which Neil returns happily.

When Andrew appears later, Neil’s already slid the last tray into the oven and is cleaning everything up.

“Done for the day?” Andrew says, bored, hopping onto the counter and eating his chocolate cookies.

“Depends on whether you’re done with having your ass kicked by Renee for the day,” Neil retorts, wiping his hands on a dishcloth. Andrew answers with a stony stare, and Neil goes to stand between his legs, examining his split lip and the cut across his eyebrow.

He reaches a hand out slowly, and Andrew lets him trace his fingers over the cut, down to his cheekbones and to the line of his jaw, his other hand resting on Andrew’s knee.

“Do you like them?” Neil asks as Andrew crams the last piece of cookie into his mouth.

“Hmm,” Andrew responds, which means he does.

Neil feels his mouth hooking around a smile, and Andrew runs a thumb over Neil’s lips like he wants to imprint them on his skin.  

“That machine is obnoxiously loud,” he says, pressing his thumb on the corner of Neil’s mouth.

“But I’m making good on my promise to use it,” Neil says, eyebrows raised in faux nonchalance, “After all, you went through all the trouble of buying it for m–”  

Andrew clamps his hand over Neil’s mouth, scowling when he feels Neil smirking. Leaning forward, he asks, “Yes or no?”

“Yes,” Neil says against Andrew’s palm.

Andrew removes his hand and their lips meet, Neil humming at the sweetness of chocolate in Andrew’s mouth. He thinks he might have a new favorite spot in their dorm room for snogging.  

Near the stove, the timer – a gift from one Matt Boyd – rings to tell Neil it’s time to take out the tray from the oven. Neil thinks that burnt cookies are a sacrifice worth making for Andrew’s kisses.

*

“A ship’s nose, four letters,” Neil cites, twirling his pen around his fingers.

Andrew places their coffee mugs on the table and takes the seat across from Neil. “Prow,” he says, ripping open a family-size packet of Oreos. He takes one out, separates the cookie sandwich, licks the cream off, and gives the wafers to Neil in exchange for the crossword puzzle.

Neil chews on them absentmindedly as he resumes solving the Sudoku puzzle in front of him. Soon, there is a towering pile of mini black disks next to it, and he has eaten about ten of them and drank half of his coffee when Nicky saunters into the kitchen, looking chipper. If he has a hangover, he’s hiding it really well.

“Mornin’! How about some waffles for breakfast today?” He goes to the cabinets to take out a pan and a few bowls, whistling a tune. When he notices what Andrew is doing, however, he pauses.

“That’s – that’s kind of cute but also kind of really gross,” he says, and Andrew flicks a piece of wafer that he just licked cream off of at Nicky’s head without looking up from the crossword.

Nicky laughs, ducking away from the projectile biscuit. “Okay, okay. Share your soggy cookies with your boyfriend, I won’t judge.” He sees the rest of the unopened Oreo packets though, and asks, “Is someone craving for Oreos?”

“I bought them after my morning run because I wanted to make Oreo cheesecake,” Neil says with a shrug, scrawling numbers into boxes.

“Okay…?”

“Oven’s broke,” Neil adds.

“Oh, damn. That’s too bad. I would’ve loved to eat some cheesecake before I fly home.” Nicky turns around again to start on the waffles, “But I guess milk and Oreos are just as good. Did you call somebody to check the oven?”

“They’re coming later today,” Neil says. He’s not particularly bummed out about the oven; Nicky is going to Germany until practices start, Aaron is away for a summer internship, and Kevin is already in Dallas, busy with his new team, but Neil and Andrew are staying in Columbia for a couple of days before they hit the road and he has time if he still wants to bake something. Or he could probably make something that doesn’t require the oven, like Oreo truffles. At the rate Andrew is packing away the Oreos, though, he thinks that maybe it’ll be something with a different core ingredient.

Baking is – interesting, for lack of a better word. It doesn’t give him the cathartic effects of running, his mind shut down and his legs carrying him away on autopilot, where all that is left are the hurricane in his lungs, the burn in his calves, the sweat beading on his temples and pooling in the collar of his shirt.

Baking is more methodical; he has to put some thought to it, but it isn’t as taxing as his mathematical problems are, nor is it as engrossing, but he finds himself relaxing as he whisks eggs into a simmering pot of heavy cream or taps a sieve full of flour against his palm or pumps frosting over a cake in swirls. Perhaps the repetitiveness of it all soothes him.

He’s not much of an expert even after keeping up with the hobby for a couple of years, but he finds that he likes it, although it is nowhere near his passion for Exy. The novelty of seeing his hands, with their gnarl of scars and burn marks and bitten fingernails and calloused palms, create something tangible – something _sweet_ and pleasant – will probably never wear off, much like how it feels each time he signs his name for autographs and credit card receipts and official documents.   

A nudge to his foot snaps him out of his reverie, and he looks up to find Andrew watching him, reading glasses slipping down his nose. A glowing, syrupy feeling fills inside Neil like drizzling honey, and he watches Andrew back, mouthing _staring_ and smiling when Andrew mouths _junkie_.

*

When Neil unlocks the front door to Andrew’s apartment and sees all the windows and curtains drawn, he knows without any uncertainty that it is a bad day. He has had his suspicions all the way from Palmetto until his flight landed in Boston and through the cab ride to Andrew’s place, worry a heavy stone in the pit of his stomach. He leaves his duffel bag and jacket in the hallway, dumping his keys next to Andrew’s, and toes his shoes off.

The windows in Andrew’s bedroom are also sealed tight, but the blinds are partially open, and light from the setting sun trickles in through the slats. On the bed, Andrew lies on his back, staring at the ceiling, unmoving.

Neil guesses that he has been this way since the early hours of the morning, because he was still replying to Neil’s texts the night before. This morning, when Neil asked if he was able to pick him up from the airport, he had received no response. He might have been set off by a number of things – a nightmare, a memory, the start of a low cycle in his depression. Whatever it is, it has resulted in a bad day, and on bad days, Neil has made it his job to make sure that Andrew has what he needs.

He stands at the edge of the bed, and Andrew shows no sign of noticing him.

“Hey,” Neil says, soft.

When Andrew doesn’t respond, he asks, “Can I turn on the lights?”

Neil waits. The day dwindles to an end, and lilac paints the room over in thin stripes against the floor and walls. Neil keeps on waiting.

“Yes,” Andrew answers eventually, a raspy whisper.

Neil switches on the bedside lamp and closes the blinds fully. He stands near the bed again, saying, “I’m going to get you some water. Can you drink?”

He gets a small nod, the tiniest dip of Andrew’s chin, and he goes to the kitchen to retrieve a bottle of water from the fridge. When he returns, Andrew has propped himself up into a sitting position, slumped against the wall. Neil uncaps the bottle and passes it over, careful not to let their skin touch.

Andrew drinks some of the water by slow, incremental sips, and when he’s done, Neil places the bottle on the nightstand.

“Is it okay if I come closer?” Neil asks.

Andrew is staring past Neil, eyes hollow, but he gives a nod. Neil crawls onto the bed, sitting cross-legged beside Andrew, close enough to feel the heat of each other’s presence.

He starts talking, quietly and continuously, sharing anecdotes that Andrew has mostly heard about, but he does it anyway, not expecting a reply.

They must have spent almost an hour like that before Andrew releases a shaky sigh. Neil pauses his tirade and stills when Andrew drops his head on Neil’s shoulder.

“Keep talking,” Andrew tells him, voice dull. But the fact that he is talking at all is a good sign.

Neil nods, Andrew’s hair tickling his jaw, but before he picks up where he left off, he lifts a hand to Andrew’s head and asks, “Is it okay to touch you? Just here.”

Polar questions work best, because they only require a _yes_ or a _no_ , a simple nod or a shake of the head. Andrew takes his time considering this question before he says, “Yes.”

Neil talks, his fingers running through Andrew’s hair and rubbing gentle circles on his scalp. At one point, he interjects himself by asking, “Do you want to eat?”

Andrew shakes his head.

Neil bites his lower lip. “How about a shower?”

This time, Andrew nods.

Neil lets Andrew take his time getting out of bed. After he does, Neil grabs a change of clothes from the dresser and places them in the bathroom, Andrew a few steps behind him.

“Do you want me to leave?”

Andrew stares at him with tired, tired eyes, glazed over like a smoke screen.

“Yes,” Andrew says, and Neil nods. When he turns around to leave, though, a hand snags the hem of his sweater. He looks at Andrew again, and waits, patient.

Andrew blinks, once, but otherwise does nothing, his fingers curled around the fabric of Neil’s sweater, their eyes rooted on each other.

Slowly, Andrew lets go, his hand dropping to his side. Neil waits for a bit longer, but when nothing comes, he presses a kiss to Andrew’s forehead and steps outside the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

While Andrew showers, he changes the bedsheets and goes to the pantry to see what he can make for a light dinner. He knows that Andrew doesn’t have the appetite or the energy to eat, but he’ll whip something up anyway, because he also knows Andrew hasn’t eaten anything in almost twenty-four hours.

He rummages around for ingredients to make bread pudding, and by the time Andrew pads into the kitchen in sweatpants and a faded t-shirt without his armbands, it’s already in the oven and Neil is frying some scrambled eggs, the air thick with a mixture of food scents.

From the bowl of fruits which he knows Andrew bought the day before in preparation for his arrival, he picks up a few nectarines and eats them while he watches Andrew take a few bites and push the eggs around his plate.  

He still has a distant look in his eyes when he says, “What did you make.”

Neil licks juice off his fingers and says, “Bread pudding.” He doesn’t add, _I know you like them_. But he doesn’t need to, because Andrew catches the implication.

There is the slightest pinch to his eyebrows just then, the first crack in his expression Neil’s seen for the past few hours.

“I do not need you to coddle me.” A simple statement of fact.

“You don’t,” Neil agrees, “But you still have me anyway.” A simple statement of fact.

It is not the first time they have had a conversation of this variation.

The scrunch between Andrew’s eyebrows deepens, but then his face smooths out, a blank slate once again. He doesn’t say anything else and eats more than half of the scrambled eggs.  

Neil washes the dishes and takes the bread pudding out of the oven, leaving it to cool while he checks up on Andrew who has taken up residence on the couch, staring into space.

Neil deposits a blanket over his shoulders and leaves him there with the television on at a low volume while he showers.

When he’s done, he makes hot cocoa for Andrew and tea for himself, and scoops some pudding into a small bowl. He brings them to the living room and sits with his legs folded under him on the other end of the couch. This time, Andrew eats and drinks what’s in front of him without any prodding, and Neil gets halfway through his mug when he feels his eyes drooping. When his head lolls to the side, he jolts to alertness, and places the tea on the coffee table before it falls.

Rubbing his eyes, he asks, “Do you need me to sleep on the couch tonight?”

Andrew slides his vacant gaze away from the late night news report to Neil. Then he lifts one side of the blanket draped around his shoulder, a silent offer.

Neil feels more awake right then, blinking rapidly at Andrew. “Are you sure?”

Andrew continues to stare at him, not a flicker of emotion in his face, but he nods, sharp and sure.

“Okay,” Neil says, moving closer until he’s seated right beside Andrew – close, but not enough to touch. Andrew covers them both in the blanket, and one arm wraps itself around Neil’s waist to pull him in until their shoulders and thighs are flushed against the other’s. Neil is tense for a while, cautious because it is rare for Andrew to want proximity on bad days, but he gradually relaxes, loose-limbed with exhaustion. Andrew is very, very warm.

“Is this okay?” he asks, voice soft with drowsiness, head resting on the crook of Andrew’s shoulder and neck.

“Yes,” Andrew replies.

Neil watches the television without really watching it, the steady rhythm of Andrew’s breathing lulling him towards the edge of sleep once more.

“This place reeks of vanilla each time you come over,” Andrew says.

Neil turns his head to the side, his nose brushing against Andrew’s neck. He feels the wave of a small shudder coursing through Andrew’s body.

“Do you hate it?” Neil murmurs, eyes drifting shut.

“Hmm,” Andrew responds, which means he doesn’t.

Save for the low hum of the television, the apartment is swathed in silence.

“It gets quiet here,” Andrew says, and Neil hears what he doesn’t say, what he probably can’t say.

Pressing his knee against Andrew’s, Neil says, “How about we get you a cat?”

Andrew scoffs, a tiny huff of breath into Neil’s hair, and Neil is glad for it.

“We should get one or two,” he continues around a yawn, “Maybe not now, if you don’t want to. But one day, we could.” When they’re living together again.

Andrew’s arm curls tightly around Neil, his hand squeezing Neil’s hip.

“It won’t be long until then,” Neil says.

Andrew’s grip gradually loosens. “I know,” he says.

“Don’t complain when I bring an electric mixer with me,” Neil mumbles, the last dregs of his consciousness slipping away.

“Go to sleep, Neil,” Andrew says.

Neil does, his lips curled around a smile like the swirl of cream.

   

 

**Author's Note:**

> (in other worlds, neil does a runner on nathaniel's birthday but ultimately fails to pull it through. in this one, he bakes and ultimately fails to make something edible.)
> 
> ((do their dorm rooms even have ovens))
> 
> this was my attempt at writing something light-hearted and short but it spiraled out of control and now i feel kind of dumb about the whole thing.
> 
> anyway. my [tumblr ](http://nakasomethingkun.tumblr.com)
> 
> EDIT: [aminiyard made art based on the kevin neil and mixer scene holy shit ](http://aminiyard.tumblr.com/post/164829857562/based-off-a-scene-from-sugar-spice-and-something)


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